


where you lay left a bed in your shape

by Anonymous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Feelings Realization, M/M, Mild Character Study, not exactly in that order, osamu climbs up a mountain for akaashi and rediscovers home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:46:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29908887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: On nights like these, Akaashi Keiji could send him a list of directions with no other instructions and he’d be off, leaping for the sun hidden away, awash in cold light and reveling in the peace thrumming all the way down to his bones.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25
Collections: Anonymous





	where you lay left a bed in your shape

**Author's Note:**

> [look at you, strawberry blond](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g685pAuKW34)

It’s the wind whistling through his hair, hurriedly chanting a tumultuous mantra that tethers him to the path, as cacophonic as the whole affair is. There’s pinpricks of lights he can barely parse in the distance, aggressively warm. Unsettlingly vague, if he could word it better.

There’s home, a word that remained symbolic in nature for years after the inevitable fallout of a brother stretching his hands out of the shadows. Peeling off the skin of _younger twin_ and clawing his way into a new miasma alone, which meant learning what a single set of footfalls in an empty hallway sounded like; learning what an empty hallway at all felt like for that matter, all those ghosts lining his lungs like a quiet prayer. It meant standing in a dorm and checking every corner twice because no one had smacked the adjacent wall and demanded he _come here ‘Samu, just once, listen I know you had that essay but this’ll take, like,_ five _minutes—_

He hadn’t been alone, per say. There were his hands, the lingering callouses, the inevitable softening of a grip accompanying the gradual steadiness. Coexisting peacefully, which seemed unfeasible in the jagged punches of high school—all aggression, all roaring desperation—but somehow everything blurs together: all the lost hours spent carving his hands anew, curving his body into one that fit. A lover, a fighter, a person not directly in conjunction for once.

And there’s—his phone blazing into life, the buzz in his hands long-turned familiar, expectations coalescing into the grin pulling at his lips as he tugs his jacket closer. The warmth bubbling over so insistently, endlessly against his spine. The heat mellowing out in his fingertips as he replies.

_swear I’m about to lose internet connection. whatever you want me to look for better be worth it_

_You’re unusually impatient. I expect this from your brother more than you._

_do you want to lose your deal_

_I never said that, Miya-san._

Then, a few seconds later: _Ah, sorry, I forgot. Osamu._

And there’s the insistent longing, so new and so beautifully familiar, all at once. And there’s hours of this, of a person who holds no small amount of hope, of home.

.

He’s finally found the damn path, and he’s been looking for thirty minutes. God, not even helping Kita-san at his farm took this much out of him.

Osamu bats the last of the bushes out of his way and the rugged stone under his feet turns to soft dirt, pliant against his footsteps. At the top, the breeze has long-since morphed into a howl, picking apart at his skin, and he’s shielding his eyes, staring out as the valley opens up beneath his feet in quiet moonbeams.

His phone, buzzing again: _Osamu-san, are you there?_

He can’t help the fondness curling his lips upward as much as he could help the brevity planting the seeds in his throat, spilling out as he laughs into the night sky, breathless, endeared. He usually leaves the dramatics to ‘Tsumu but he decides to let it be just for tonight.

On nights like these, Akaashi Keiji could send him a list of directions with no other instructions and he’d be off, leaping for the sun hidden away, awash in cold light and reveling in the peace thrumming all the way down to his bones. The thing with Akaashi is that he tends to demonstrate his affection through these unspoken smaller gestures, handcrafted with a piece of himself he doesn’t readily give away. It’s almost disastrous, watching the trust bloom.

_yeah, what’d you want me to do here_

His phone rings.

“Akaashi,” he says, the wide grin in his voice hand-cupped like a promise, “how are you?”

Akaashi chuckles lightly. “You sound more excited than I anticipated,” he murmurs.

Osamu holds back a sigh. Of course he’d manage to pull out some semblance of truth in so little. His observance constantly threatens upheaval, but he finds that he doesn’t mind.

Maybe he should.

He doesn’t.

“Well.” Osamu looks up, sees the universe greet him in vicious glory. The stars scatter the night sky with a vigilance, more demanding than he’s ever remembered them, and he’s freezing his ass off in way too little layers, and he’s fucking hopeless. “It’s pretty out here. Cold as hell, though.”

“It is a mountain,” Akaashi notes, toneless, and Osamu snorts.

The truth is that Akaashi isn’t even in the country. He’s in Italy or something, promoting—okay, Osamu’s not sure, in all honesty, but it’s important. Akaashi’s away doing important adult things, and he is back home because the onigiri won’t make itself, and Akaashi can do things like send him directions and tell him to go.

Osamu can do things like carve out time he doesn’t have to hike up a godforsaken mountain for a godforsaken man and not even think to complain to his face. He’ll bitch about the hike itself to Tsumu when he gets back, whether he wants to hear it or not, but Akaashi can hold this utter fascination poking at his chest. This inaudible, wild hope, if he dared to label it.

“It is a mountain,” Osamu echoes. “Say, Akaashi, why’d you tell me to come here? Seems kinda out of the way, y’know.”

“My mother used to take me here when I was young.” And Akaashi’s voice dips, just shy of sleepy, precariously close to intimate. “I come back when I need to ground myself.”

He’s surrounded by soft dirt, flowers gently swaying in the wind, the intermittent rustle in the trees. Osamu can understand. After spending his entire life running and shouting and clawing for a place to stand—to be seen—it had been weird to transition to a life where he fought without necessity. Just to be and exist and breathe without posing a challenge.

‘Tsumu had to learn the same thing. And he walks the path of the demanding, Osamu can see even now, even still, the way he glares down opponents before a particularly nasty move. He’s had to learn how to move without the impending, unrelenting trust there from the get-go, and it’s done him good.

It’s done them good. Osamu thinks he gets it.

“Yeah, well, your mom knew well.” Osamu digs his fingers into the dirt. It gives easily. “Why am I privy to this stuff, though.”

Not a question.

“Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous,” Akaashi begins, taking a strangely shaky breath, “but I wanted someone else to know, since I’m not home, and I thought of you. If that’s alright. I—”

“Hey, it’s fine, it’s—wow, that’s deep.”

Yeah, what is he supposed to say to being granted a passage into his safe space? It’s the wind, curling into his neck as Osamu looks at the sky and makes a wish, says a prayer, does anything remotely close to bringing fate in his direction. Just this once.

Akaashi’s laughing and he wants to tell him.

“Insightful,” he says dryly. “Anyways. I was hoping we could go together once I got back.”

Impulsivity moves against his teeth in waves.

“Then why don’t we? I’ll make you extra onigiri and everything. Can’t have you going hungry under my watch.”

Ah, what the hell. He has time to breathe in this space of his, to be seen and truly known by this man who leaves a trail of stars in his wake, to love and have that be okay. To be enough, just this once, just for him.

“Sounds like a dream. If you insist, Miya-san. Sorry. Osamu.”

It passes through his teeth in waves, a truth. Unvoiced, as steady as the ground underneath his feet. “I do, actually.”

And there’s home, an abrupt guest but welcome all the same.


End file.
